


13 Letters

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Sam Winchester, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Murder, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a prisoner on Death Row, and Castiel is there to take his last confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	13 Letters

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a companion comic piece to go with this story. 
> 
> Warnings for MCD (Dean IS on Death Row so there should be no surprises there). Also this a gen fic but you could read it as implied Wincest OR Destiel. I'm not tagging for either because frankly it's not that kind of story but read into it what you will.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Don't own the boys. Enjoy!

“He’s a real piece of work, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“Interesting,” Castiel said coolly. “I don’t remember soliciting your opinion at all, free or otherwise.”

On his left, Crowley, the short and insufferable corrections officer, hid a smile as he turned his face away and gazed into the dark, empty cells as the two men passed. “Really, though, he’s turned just about every fellow inmate into a feral beast. I like to run a tight ship around here –.”

“Which I’m sure you do flawlessly,” Castiel said, deadpan.

“Yes, quite.” Crowley coughed, unsure whether to take that at face-compliment value or the subtle jibe that the priest had much more likely given. “In any case, he’s causing chaos. _Entropy._ I’ll be more the happier when he’s gone.”

“You mean executed.” Castiel stopped, patiently waiting for Crowley to fiddle with the small panel that would allow the metal doors to slide open, and thus allow them to pass. “A man’s life is about to end and all you can think of is your gain.” He sighed, rubbing his fingers into the dark skin underneath his eyes. “I am meant to love all God’s children, Crowley, but sometimes I find it very difficult to love you.”

“The feeling is mutual, darling,” Crowley replied with another smile. The doors slid open, accompanied by a single blaring alarm. “I’m surprised you can love half the people you visit here.”

At that, Castiel managed to crack a smile.

“He’s not Catholic, you know,” Crowley said as they continued their journey towards the only occupied cell in Crowley’s North Wing. It was, unofficially, Death Row of Meadow Penitentiary, but over the last six years the inmates had been transferred out until the only remaining resident of Death Row was the man Castiel was on his way to see.

Dean Winchester, serial killer, sentenced to be executed at nine tomorrow morning.

“He just got this look in his eye and asked for a priest.” Crowley grunted, pressing his lips together so tightly that his beard threatened to cover his mouth entirely. “Doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Regardless, a man deserves his last rites.” Castiel stopped as they rounded the corner. There was a single light coming from the last block on the left. The doors on Death Row were more like those in psychiatric institutions than the rest of the prison – instead of bars or open cubicles; they were doors of solid iron with only a slit at eye-level, and then another flap in the bottom for food to be slid in and out.

Castiel took a shallow breath in, his fingers playing briefly with the sleeve of his robe, clutching the little leather-bound Holy Book in his hand, before he straightened and nodded. “I think I can find my way from here, Crowley. Thank you.”

Crowley huffed, shuffling his feet. “Give us a shout when it’s, ah, all done.”

“Thank you. I will.”

 

 

 

Dean Winchester’s case had been a fascinating one. Castiel remembered seeing it on the news when it aired six years ago. Dean had been an up-and-comer, scholarships falling at his feet, engineering companies throwing money at him to create the next world-changing gadget. Dean Winchester was a talented and smart man.

The neighbors hadn’t even heard screaming. The bloodbath had been discovered by smell, a dog running too close to the fence, Dean’s hands red and his eyes wild as he dug what had turned out to be the thirteenth fresh grave.

When asked to plead, he’d merely said ‘Thirteen always was an unlucky number’.

He had refused to plead guilty or not, had refused to testify, had simply sat while the prosecutor threw names and lives and faces at the jury and had neither smiled nor scowled. Dean’s family had not attended the trial – there was a theory that the first grave there had been for his little brother, and the second for his father. Dental tests disproved it, but neither of them had been found even to this day.

Dean could have afforded a good lawyer. He could have done so many things.

Castiel sighed, and blinked, suddenly at the heavy and imposing-looking prison door before he was aware of having moved there. He lifted the keycard Crowley had given him and laid it against the little red light that was in place of a handle, and waited for it to turn green before he pushed the door open.

“Dean Winchester,” he said softly, stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind him.

“Hey, Padre.”

Six years in solitary had not suited Dean Winchester. During his trial he had looked healthy, tan, thick through the torso, his hair golden-touched from sunshine. Now his hair was almost black from lack of sunlight, his skin sallow, and his muscles had remained but the fat had melted away, leaving a wiry skinniness that was entirely unflattering, made even worse by the ugly, baggy orange jumpsuit.

Still, his smile was as charming as a Cheshire cat, and Castiel smiled back.

“I was told you weren’t Catholic,” he said, coming forwarding and taking a seat. There was a single chair in Dean’s room, opposite his barren cot of a bed. There was nothing adorning the walls – not even things carved into it. It appeared that Dean had no need to doodle in his spare time.

Dean blinked at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah,” he said defensively. “So?”

“Usually only Catholics use ‘Father’, or any derivative thereof.”

Abruptly Dean’s face smoothed out in understanding, the cat’s eyes and sharp teeth melting into a more welcoming smile. “Ah, okay,” he said. His eyes dropped, one large hand coming up to rub over the back of his pale neck. “Wasn’t sure it wasn’t a ‘stick to your own’ kinda thing. I mean, like, I haven’t been to Church in…” He whistled, shaking his head. “And I think we were raised Baptist? I don’t fuckin’ know, man.”

“Were your mother or father Catholic?” Castiel asked, surprised at Dean’s openness. He supposed that being stuck with only yourself (and possibly Crowley) for company could make a man desperate for conversation.

Dean nodded. “Dad was, yeah. Real big on Saint Michael, you know, and Mary. All that 'Angels and Saints' bullsh-stuff.”

He blew out a breath, his hand falling from the back of his neck to join its opposite, suspended between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs.

The silence stretched on. Castiel was used to these kinds of silences – there was so much a man wanted to say in his final hours. It was his job to listen.

But the silence continued. It was heavy, and awful, listening to nothing at all. This was what solitary was like, Castiel realized in a brief moment of clarity – this was what Dean had lived with, for the most part, for six years.

Castiel had visited many, many prison cells in his time, and none of them had seemed so heavily, sickeningly _silent_ as this one.

A man could go crazy living like this.

“Are you a believer, Dean? In anything?” he asked after what felt like a good ten minutes of nothingness.

Dean lifted his head and blinked at him. His lashes were a lighter color than his hair, and frayed at the ends from malnutrition. His mouth twisted, briefly, into an unhappy shape before he looked down again. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, I mean – I guess so? It’d be pretty shitty if there was nothing more than what we got here, you know? But then there’s also so much random evil crap that I can’t believe a God would -. I think there’s something more. But I guess ambition’s a human thing, so who knows when we die if our souls stop caring? And then we come back, or whatever happens, and -?”

He cut himself off with an impatient wave of his hand. “I’m not really worried about all that, Padre.”

Castiel frowned. “You’re not in the slightest bit concerned?” he asked.

“Well…no.” Dean looked up at him again. “I want to think that – you know, whatever’s out there, if there is a God or higher being or anything looking over us and judging us – that it’ll see what I’ve done, that the good outweighs the bad.”

“You killed thirteen people, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth made that unhappy shape again, and he looked away. “I got a lot to confess, Padre.”

“That’s alright.” Castiel straightened up, suddenly aware that he had been leaning in, listening avidly to every word coming from Dean’s mouth like he was a priest standing up in Sunday Mass. Castiel cleared his throat, resting his Bible on his lap and drumming his fingers against it. “That is why I’m here.”

“And it’s all confidential, yeah? None of this goes public?”

“Yes, Dean, I assure you. The only people hearing this are you, me, and God.”

 

 

Dean had not shared space with anything remotely holy in a long, long time. It wasn’t a tangible difference, sitting with the priest in his barren cell, but more like something Dean simply felt. Six years in near-solitary and even longer awaiting conviction and sentencing to death, Dean knew he had adapted to his life in prison with a flawless ease that many would find unnerving.

This man did not belong with the least of these. There was a cool, detached serenity about this priest – “What’s your name, Padre?”

“Castiel,” the man replied, blinking at him. He had eyes that looked like sky at high-noon. They shone. Maybe there was more to the 'ministers of Grace' than Dean had paid attention to.

Father Castiel. Castiel.

In the back of Dean's mind, something stirred – a great slumbering beast cracked open one eye. “That’s an Angel name, isn’t it?”

Castiel blinked at him again, before a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Yes. The Angel of Thursday, to be exact. A lesser Seraph, from what I’ve managed to learn about him.”

Dean nodded, accepting that. The corner of his mouth twitched. “My mother’s name was Mary,” he said. “Like the virgin, I guess.”

“And Mary Magdalene,” Castiel said. “One of Jesus’ favorite disciples.”

Dean frowned at Castiel. The man met his eyes with a calm focus Dean had seen in hunting cats. “The _whore_?” he spat. “My mother wasn’t named for no whore.”

“I never said she was.” Castiel held up a placating hand, his cheeks flushing in response to Dean’s anger. “Mary Magdalene was beloved by Jesus, and has been held in many circles to the same esteem as the Virgin Mother. I didn’t mean to offend you, Dean.”

Dean glared at him for another moment, before his face changed in another fluid motion and he sat back, relaxed. His shoulders propped him up against the wall, one heel hooked on the edge of his cot, legs splayed shamelessly wide and uncaring, his other leg stretched out at an angle to his right.

“Right.” He scratched his wrist, then the back of his neck, and broke Castiel’s gaze.

He rubbed the pad of his thumb against his nose, lips parting, and sighed. “Guess it doesn’t matter. She’s dead – moved on to wherever we go.”

Castiel smiled. “I’m sure she’s in a wonderful place.”

Dean sniffed, and shook his head, but didn’t argue.

“She died when you were young, didn’t she?”

Dean’s eyes flashed to Castiel’s face, sharp suddenly again. “Ah, so you _did_ follow the court case,” he said, and his smile was so wide it showed the points of his canine teeth. “What was it – ‘a boy from a broken home, damaged by an absent father and a horrific trauma in his youth’, blahdy-blahdy- _bullshit_?” His nose wrinkled in disgust – the first real sign of the anger that must have run through Dean during the trial showing through.

Castiel forced his face to remain impassive, although some part of his throat hurt at seeing this man so twisted with venom at what the prosecution had said about him.

He remained silent, and Dean blew out a loud breath through his nose. The leg that had been stretched out came up and crossed under his other foot, ankle under ankle, and his shoulders hunched into a more defensive position.

“I mean, it’s all true, I guess.” He snorted derisively, rubbing the side of his nose again. “Mom died, Dad got fucked up – things just weren’t the same.”

“What happened?” Castiel asked, his voice soft and sympathetic.

Dean pressed his lips together, blinked once, twice. "You got a…whatddya call it – got a flock back home, Padre? Or you only cater to the lost causes?"

At that, Castiel's face noticeably tightened. He squared his shoulders, leaned back, and cleared his throat. "I – no. I don't preach to a congregation at the moment."

Dean smiled – it was a slow, smug thing. "What did you do?" he asked, leaning forward, his arms linking around one of his shins, left hand grabbing his right wrist. "Touch a choir boy? Kill a poor girl possessed by a demon? Wanted to fuck a married man -?"

"Dean!" Castiel did not shout, but he spoke with a cold anger that made Dean's teeth click together with a loud snap. Dean laughed lowly; licking his lips, and shook his head.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew it. Could just look atcha," he winked over at Castiel, noting with visible glee the priest's flushing face, his nervously jogging leg, "and I knew. Got a feel for that kind of thing."

"Is that why you killed people?" Castiel asked, his voice cold. "Because of their sexual orientation?"

Dean snorted heavily, throwing his head back until the back of his head hit the stone wall. The impact made a notable sound, but Dean didn't wince or break his laughter. His eyes were brighter than Castiel had seen since he first came in, alight with mischief and sadistic joy.

"It's never that simple, Padre," he said quietly. "You know that." He shook his head, an air of disappointment about him. Then, he looked back at Castiel, sly and smiling. "Sure ruffled your feathers though, didn't it?"

Castiel sighed, one eyebrow rising, and drummed his fingers against the leather of his Bible. "Dean, if you're not going to take this seriously," he said, beginning to rise.

"Who said I'm not taking this seriously?" Dean asked, challenging, though his body language didn't change. "You didn't even make me go through that whole Confession bullshit, did you? What is even the point of this?"

"The _point_ ," Castiel growled, "is to absolve you of your sins, to ask for forgiveness, so that when you _die_ tomorrow your soul is not condemned to Hell!"

Dean looked at him for a long moment – so unbearably long of a moment that Castiel thought he might have forgotten how to breathe. The light in Dean's eyes was gone, darkened by the reminder of what awaited him on the other side of the sunrise.

Dean licked his dry lips, turning his face away. "Do you really believe that?" he asked. "That I can just say 'Oops, my bad' and go to Heaven, with the people like my mom?"

Castiel sat down, sucking in a breath. "Yes," he said, thousands of years of conviction riding on the word. "Yes, I truly do, Dean. If you repent and mean it, God will forgive."

"…Nah." Dean shook his head, sighing, and turned his face away again. "I don't believe that."

"And why not?"

"Have you ever _sinned,_ Padre?" Dean asked, his narrowed eyes snapping to Castiel's face. Castiel hadn't even realized he'd leaned in until he noticed that he was counting the freckles on Dean's face, pale and few (he'd had more during the trials), and watching the cling of Dean's dry lips together before he licked them. He sat back, clearing his throat. "I mean _really_ sinned. The kind of thing even the law gets edgy about."

Castiel shook his head.

Dean grinned, lopsided and sharp. "Then you don't know what it's like to ask for forgiveness. Not really. All you got," he gestured to Castiel, sitting straight and stiff, "all you got is lustful thoughts and a few drops of wine before you were legal, right? That ain't _shit_ compared to murder."

"All sins are worthy of forgiveness, Dean," Castiel said softly, assured. "All sins can be repented and forgiven."

"But only by God."

Castiel cocked his head to one side, frowning. "You seem to be obsessed with this idea," he said, "that man means nothing, and that God means nothing." Dean huffed a laugh, shook his head, and ran a hand over his mouth. "You haven't been able to speak about this is a very long time, Dean. That kind of burden, these kinds of thoughts…they can weigh heavily on a man."

"I'm lighter than air, Padre," Dean whispered, his teeth flashing. "I could just float away."

Castiel sighed. "Dean, if you truly feel no guilt for what you've done, then I cannot help you."

Dean lifted his chin, let his leg go and sat back against the wall again with a sigh. "And what if I told you I was innocent?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting in a brief gesture. "Can't feel guilty for what I didn't do."

"You were found guilty by a jury of your peers," Castiel replied. "If you were innocent, why didn't you plead so? Why didn't you fight it? Mistrial? Pleads for parole?"

Dean made an ugly sound and shook his head. "They'd already written me off."

"They hadn't, Dean. The world loved you. The people who wanted you would have paid for counsel, paid for bail, done anything they could to get you out -."

Castiel stopped, found the words coming dead out of his mouth. Dean's eyes had taken on a sharp, dark quality. They had widened, blinked, hardened. The corner of his jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth, and he wiped his thumb under his nose, sniffing, before he leaned forward. Both feet planted themselves on the concrete floor, his hands clasped together in a loose imitation of prayer. Castiel found himself wanting to shift his chair back, but forced himself to hold his ground.

"You ever wonder why they couldn't find my dad or my brother?" he asked softly.

Castiel shook his head, swallowed hard, and caught in the heaviness in Dean's eyes.

"Well, Dad's been dead a _long_ time," Dean said, smiling in a way that reminded Castiel of a snake post-rat, smug and satisfied. "And Sammy's on the run. Probably changed his name and went off the grid if he knows what's good for him."

"Why do you believe this?" Castiel asked, only realizing after he's spoken that the words came out as a whisper.

Dean's smile widened. "You say the world loved me, Padre, but I only loved one person. Sammy needed protection, and I did what I had to do."

Castiel breathed out, long and low. "Do you feel nothing for those you killed?" he asked, his voice grave. Dean merely blinked at him. "Were you never sorry for them? Even when you saw their families at the trial, or when the prosecution went over all the details of your crimes?"

Dean's shoulders stiffened, and then smoothed out, the motion as fast as a blink. "I never really paid much attention," he admitted. For the first time, his smile went away fully, and an edge of shame entered his voice. "I mean, I did what I did, I ain't denyin' that."

"But _why_?"

"All you religious types are focused on the 'why'," Dean said with a small roll of his eyes. He didn't say anything else for a long moment, and Castiel joined him in the silence, sensing more rolling on the waves.  Then, Dean sucked in a breath, closing his eyes for a slow, long moment, opened them again, turned his sharp green eyes on Castiel's face again. "I'd think you'd get used to not getting answers."

Castiel sighed.

"Does God ever talk back to you? Answer you back when you pray?"

"God sends signs, he gives us guidance."

At that, Dean grinned, wide enough that the crinkles around his eyes went dark and deep and his teeth shone in the dim yellow that came from the single light overhead. "Everything happens for a reason, is that it? By that logic, I was destined to do what I did, and this was all pre-determined, right?"

"No," Castiel said firmly. "God has a plan, but humans were always given free will. You _chose_ to do what you have done."

"Took responsibility for it," Dean replied, slightly defensively. Then he cocked his head to one side and leaned back again, taking on that cocky, lazy feline attitude once more. "I accept whatever's comin' to me on the other side."

"I don't understand why you asked for me, if you don't intend to confess and repent of your sins."

"What about _your_ sins, Padre?" Dean asked.  Then, he laughed. "Oh wait, I forget; you're as pure as the driven snow."

"I never said that," Castiel said, his cheeks turning a little pink. "Everyone sins. Even priests go to confession."

Dean smiled. "And what, exactly, do priests confess?"

"I'm sure they confess many things," Castiel replied primly, "but I'm glad to say gossip has never been one of mine."

"Pride, though, probably," Dean said, cocking his head to one side. His legs swung off the edge of the bed, catching on the floor. There was a scuff mark there, as though Dean had whiled away many hours doing this exact thing. Castiel wondered what he thought about when he did so. Right now Dean's eyes were on him, as sharp and green as broken beer bottle glass.

Castiel sighed through his nose. "Dean, I am prepared to spend the whole night with you, and we can speak about whatever you wish to, but I must urge you, for the sake of your soul, to consider purifying yourself before you die."

"I've heard that before," Dean replied, his voice unusually soft. "Get on your knees, pray, take communion and holy wine and whatever else they wanna slide down your throat and don't ask too many questions." He smirked but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "You Catholics are a dirty fucking bunch."

Castiel blinked at him, not daring to assume what Dean was trying to say. "Is that the kind of thing you want to talk about?" he asked. He had heard stories like this before – some men thought it justified their actions, and while Castiel's heart ached with pity for them, he had never allowed himself to feel for them very deeply. The people that abused children in that kind of way were punished. Castiel _had_ to believe that.

Dean shrugged one shoulder and released Castiel from his stare, looking instead to the slit in the heavy iron door.

They sat in silence like that for a while, Castiel's eyes on Dean's face, Dean's gaze fixed on the door. No one was coming by, not unless Castiel summoned them – Dean had already been given his last meal. The last confession was one of the few religious rights still granted to Death Row and Castiel had had enough experience with them to know that they would not be disturbed.

"You can speak freely here, Dean," Castiel murmured, feeling like he'd already told this man those same words a thousand times before. Dean's eyes snapped back to him, flat and open as an ocean.  "Anything you want to talk about, anything you want to say – now is the time to say it." He shifted his weight, pressing his thighs together and ignoring the uncomfortable throb his body gave from perching in the chair for so long. He rested his Bible on his thighs, fingers curling protectively over the spine. "You were so silent for your whole trial. Surely there is something that you still feel you need to say."

Dean eyed him for another moment, and Castiel was rather sharply reminded of a cat staring out of a window, still except for the flick of its tail, its eyes blown wide and black. "What did Crowley tell you about me?" he asked.

The question was surprising, and Castiel blinked, sitting back. "He told me you were a 'piece of work'," he said honestly, because he could not think of a single other thing he should say. Dean huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "His words, not mine. An unsolicited opinion, but I suppose you've made yourself quite the guest here."

"Forced solitary for…who fucking knows anymore," Dean agreed, shaking his head. "Said they moved the other inmates out for their own protection."

"Who said that?"

"Crowley."

Castiel's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side. "Now why do you suppose he'd say something like that?"

Dean looked away from him, his feet scuffing the floor again as he swung his legs up and dug his heels into the edge of his mattress. His arms hooked below his knees and he leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh. "Dead men like to talk," he murmured, so quietly that Castiel had to strain to hear him. His ears prickled as though the pressure in the room had changed and he swallowed, trying to clear them so that he could hear Dean's words; already he knew now that Dean didn't say anything without a reason. "I mean, I know I killed people but they -." He shook his head again as though to clear it, like the dark thoughts were wrapping around him as spider webs, and one hand ran across his hair multiple times to dig them out and fling them away. "I don't wanna talk about it, Padre."

"Then we won't," Castiel replied, doing his best to make his voice even.

Dean hummed, his nails drumming lightly on his shin, slow like the ticking of a clock. "It's fourteen, really," Dean murmured after a while.

"What?"

"My body count. It's really fourteen," Dean repeated, his eyes darting down to his toes, then the slit in the heavy iron door, then back to Castiel's face. "I killed a guy in here. That's why they moved everyone else away. Knew I'd kill 'em all."

Castiel blinked, his brow furrowing. "You don't sound remorseful," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. Dean spoke of taking a man's life the same way he might recount what he had for dinner last night. Castiel had followed the trial, watched the impassive expression on Dean's face for more hours than he could count as the jury rattled off names and causes of death and 'Guilty. Guilty. Guilty!' and had he not been sitting with Dean for uncountable minutes, he could not have believed that the man felt a single thing in the pit of his soul.

But this close to the final hour, this close to the edge of survival and just tiptoe-ing the brink, Dean's eyes gave him away. "I didn't have to do it," he whispered, his fingers drumming his shin again, tap, tap, tap like a leaky faucet, the footsteps of the hanging man leading him to the gallows. "I didn't have to kill him, but I did. The others – they, I _had_ to do it. But I thought it would stop, and I -."

He blew out a breath and dug his knuckles into his eye, wiping at the emotions stinging at them, beating back remorse and fear and tears and whatever else was hidden behind that broken-bottle green.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, overwhelmed with compassion for this fracturing man. He reached forward and placed a hand over Dean's, stilling the drumming beat of his fingernails against his leg. Dean wiped at his eyes again, sucking in a breath.

The air was heavy, expectant, and Castiel found himself, for the first time, not knowing what to say. God usually spoke through him so easily, as though Castiel were merely a receiver, a megaphone to amplify the message that God wanted his audience to hear. But now, in the unbearable, unearthly _silence_ of Dean's cell, Castiel was speechless.

Dean sucked in another small, heaving breath. His fingers tensed under Castiel's palm but he didn't pull away. "Swear to God, Padre, you make a single move on me -."

It broke the tension. Castiel huffed, pulling away. "Don't flatter yourself," he said curtly. "You're hardly my type."

Dean grinned, that Cheshire cat smile back. "I'm everyone's type," he replied with a wink, an edge in his voice that told Castiel he wasn't just confident for show. Castiel felt his cheeks turning pink but forced his expression to remain neutral.

"You smoke, Padre?"

Castiel shook his head.

"You mind if I…?"

"You have cigarettes in here?" Castiel asked with a raised eyebrow, just as Dean grinned again and reached for his pillow, digging under until he retrieved an old box, two cigarettes still inside. He slid them both out and tossed the box casually to the floor.

"Crowley's alright when you flatter him enough," is all Dean said in reply. He stuck the end of one cigarette between his teeth, sighing heavily and looking up to the ceiling. "N'fact, I think he's my number one fan. You got a light?"

Castiel wordlessly dug into his pocket, pulling out a small, lime green lighter; the kind that came in five-packs at a supermarket. Dean raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and leaned forward so that Castiel could light the end for him. He grinned around his first inhale and raised his hand to the cigarette, holding it casually between his fore- and middle fingers as he exhaled out of one corner of his mouth.

"I don't smoke either," he said, flicking the ash off prematurely. The thing almost snapped in half but neither of them commented on it. Dean lifted it to his lips again, cheeks hollowing as he pulled in another thick lungful, the end of the cigarette burning hot and red. "But what's it gonna do? Kill me?"

At that, Castiel managed a smile, watching as Dean blew out another cloud of smoke, watched it curl upwards around them and filter out through the slit in the door. He wondered, briefly, if someone would see it and come running.

Years around incense had desensitized him to smoke, and Castiel did enjoy the first, crisp scent of a freshly-lit cigarette before it became stale and gross. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes closing for a long moment.

"It'll finally be over, come morning," Dean said, breaking the silence again when the cigarette was almost burned out. His eyes glinted, a flash of gold reflecting the cherry red of the end of it as Dean took one last drag and snubbed it out against the wall. The ash stained his fingers grey and he absently wiped them on the ugly orange jumpsuit clinging to his leg. He rolled the other one under his palm for a moment, trapped between his skin and the thin bedsheet, before he flicked it away with a sigh. It skated across the bed and into the corner of the room, rolling to a stop next to one of the large grey cement blocks that made up the walls.

"You've been in here six years, Dean," Castiel whispered. "It's been over for a while, don't you think?"

Dean lifted one shoulder and rubbed the side of his nose with his thumb, smearing ash across it. "I, ah…" He paused, lifted his eyes to Castiel's, and then lowered them again. "I think I'm ready to confess, Padre."

Castiel's eyes flashed unbidden to the door. He could see the first teasing traces of dawn slanting through. The hours had flown by faster than he could have imagined. Although he knew not exactly what time it was, he could feel the approaching hour like a heavy bird settling on his shoulder, weighing down his heart with its heavy black wings.

"Very well," he murmured, sitting up straighter again. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." He signed himself and Dean followed suit, the motion jerky like a long-forgotten dance step, but his fingers lifted to his lips afterwards, a motion taught when he was young and that brought a small, sad smile to Castiel's lips.

"Dean, I know you do not conform to any specific Christian church. Do you wish for me to pray for you?"

Dean blinked at him, before he frowned down at his feet, and shook his head.

"Very well," Castiel said again. "Then tell me what you wish to confess."

Dean let out a soft, long breath. "There's so much to say," he whispered.

"Start wherever you'd like," Castiel replied. This part was never easy, but it was familiar in a way his entire previous conversation with Dean had not been. This was territory he traversed regularly.

Dean sighed again, then pushed himself to his feet and walked over to grab the second cigarette. Castiel held out the lighter again and Dean took it this time, lighting it with another unsteady breath. His fingers shook.

"I killed fourteen people," he said. "I did it and I wanted to do it. I don't want to make excuses for myself, and I don't regret that I did it, but I'm regretting it…in hindsight, I guess. Fuck, isn't that regret anyway? _Shit_." He rubbed his free hand over his face and shook his head.

"Take your time, Dean."

"I don't _have_ time," the man spat back, lifting his eyes. There was anger there, cool like embers of a long-dead fire. Six years he'd been stuck behind bars and the caged tiger in him had long since prowled itself into exhaustion. "I killed them. I remember their names, and their faces, and how I killed them. I remember digging their graves. I remember watching their families from my place in the courtroom. I remember my lawyer tellin' me I was going to go to jail if I didn't plead 'Not Guilty'. Fucker wanted me to deny it, can you believe it?" He took another long drag of his cigarette, half of it almost completely gone in that one breath.  "Wasn't gonna add _lyin'_ to my list of sins. Did enough of that."

He took another drag and crushed what remained under his foot, wincing when the heat touched his skin. He sighed and looked up again, locking eyes with Castiel.

"I killed them," he whispered, his voice raspy. "But you gotta – someone's gotta know _why_."

"Then tell me, Dean," Castiel replied, his voice equally soft. "If you must tell me, then tell me, but God already knows your heart. Only He can decide to forgive. If you do not repent, then you cannot be forgiven."

"I don't want to be forgiven," Dean said. "I just need you to know."

"Then tell me," Castiel repeated, leaning in.

Dean looked down, his fingers worrying the jumpsuit where it clung to his thighs. "My brother. Sammy. My little brother. He…he ran away, right after Dad died. But we kept in touch. He'd send me…letters." Dean winced. "No return address. Probably could've found him if I wanted to but he didn't wanna be found and I didn't wanna find him. But he sent me letters. About people who were following him, people who were scaring him. People he wanted to go away. So I helped him."

Castiel's eyes widened, but he didn't dare speak and break Dean's monologue.

"I tracked down every person he talked about in those letters. All thirteen of them. And I killed them." Dean lifted his eyes, his jaw clenched, muscle bulging at the corners, but his eyes were wide and earnest and he looked so _young_ that for a moment Castiel forgot that Dean was not some hardened soldier or common thug. He had once been brilliant, and in his peak of youth he had been locked away but that youth was still there, still glowing amidst the embers. "Only person I ever loved was my brother. I _love_ him. But he's…he's not well. He needs help. I can't help him anymore, Padre."

"You… _killed_ people because your brother was afraid," Castiel said, trying so hard to keep his voice neutral. He had heard similar things – stories of abuse, though, that there immediate and in reaction to a single threat. Not something of this magnitude, fueled by paranoia. "Did…Did Sam kill your father?"

Dean blinked, breaking eye contact, his eyes drawn to the single shaft of sunlight, growing strength and width as the sun rose. He nodded once.

"I love my brother," he said. "But when I'm gone if he starts up again, he's gotta get turned in. You can't say anythin' that was confessed, right?"

Castiel nodded.

"But if you found the letters…kept them to yourself. You could turn them in. The law would protect you 'cause you can't tell them anything I said. But if he starts up again, he _needs_ to get help. You gotta help him. _Please_."

"Dean, what you're asking me is…" Castiel sat back and shook his head. "I cannot do it. I _won't_ do it."

" _Why_?"

"Because I -." Castiel sighed, shaking his head again. "Because I am a man of faith, and a man of God's law, and murder is forbidden and I cannot in good conscience find these letters you have given me, even if they do exist, and keep them to myself when I know what I know now."

Dean swallowed hard enough that Castiel heard his throat click. His fingers were still shaking and Castiel looked up, able to hear the heavy, echoing steps of the guard coming to collect him, to take Dean away to the chair.

"They're in my father's house," Dean said. "Never was able to sell the place. It'll be in my name or Sammy's once I'm gone. If you change your mind."

Castiel nodded, standing with a sigh. He raised his right hand, slightly cupped, and performed the Sign of the Cross in the air between them. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he whispered, a strange tug in his throat choking him for a moment when Dean met his eyes. "May you go in Peace, Dean Winchester, and may the Lord show kindness to you through His Grace, and may He judge you in all fairness as one of His children."

It was not a traditional prayer, not by a long shot. But it was the best that he could do.

 

 

 

He knew not what possessed him to walk with Dean through the prison, guards on either side of him, his hands and ankles cuffed to slow his pace, but he found himself in the viewing section when they performed Dean's execution.

It was over quickly. Or at least, Castiel assumed it was. Dean had no last words, and there was no ceremony. One moment he was there, and the next he was not. They closed off the window once the deed was done, and Castiel's attention was drawn by another man quietly entering the room.

He was tall and well dressed, with sleek brown hair down to his collar, his shoulders broad and his whole body imposing. But he walked hunched, as though aware of his height and trying to make himself smaller. He was out of breath as though he had run here.

"Is it over? Am I too late?" he asked, and he looked at Castiel with wide eyes, and Castiel knew in that moment just exactly who he was looking at.

"You're Sam Winchester," he said. The man swallowed, looking unsure and earnest, and nodded once. "Yes, I'm sorry – it just happened. You're too late."

Sam blew out a shaky breath. Castiel remembered that Sam was mentioned to be four years Dean's junior, but he looked more grown up and haggard than his brother, even after years in prison had made Dean sick-looking and pale. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture so much like Dean that Castiel was positive this was Sam – even if the man had not confirmed it, he would have known.

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"My name is Castiel. I took your brother's last confession."

At that, Sam's eyes narrowed and his shoulders grew stiff. "I…didn't know my brother was religious," he said, his voice low. Unbidden Dean's words swept through Castiel's brain, the story of a paranoid younger brother who had the power to persuade men to commit murder for him.

Castiel stood, doing his best to appear unaffected. "I imagine in their last hours men will turn to whatever they need to, to make sure they have some measure of peace when they pass on."

"Right," Sam said, drawing the word out for several beats. "Dean wasn't super talkative at the best of times. He have anything interesting to say?"

"In truth, we didn't speak of much of anything," Castiel replied with a one-shouldered shrug. He made his way towards the door and tried to ignore how Sam moved as though to block him, before deciding to remain where he was at the last minute. Castiel had his hand on the door and gripped it tightly, looking back over his shoulder to where Sam was standing, tensed, hackles up. "Like you said, Dean didn't speak much."

"Right," Sam said again, quietly. "Well, he was a good man, Father. Best I ever knew."

Castiel smiled softly. "I believe you," he replied, before he pulled the door open and stepped through, eager to put as much distance between himself and Sam Winchester as physically possible.

 

 

 

Later that day, the news went haywire about the death of Fergus Crowley, senior corrections officer at Meadow Penitentiary. Castiel felt his heart beat wildly in his chest when he heard the details – a clean slit from carotid to jugular; he'd bled out in seconds. No DNA had been found at the scene, he had been discovered in his office by one of the janitorial staff.

Castiel knew who had done it. It was obvious, of course, but he could not come forward on mere suspicion. Dean had been right – as soon as he was gone, if Sam started up again, there was no one who would be able to stop him. Sam was dangerous. He had killed John Winchester…and he must have been a teenager at the time. Now he was all grown up and without his big brother to look out for him, who knows what he would do.

And a smaller part of Castiel couldn't help think that he would be next on the list.

The old, crumbling ruin of John Winchester's house was something of a local legend nowadays, and not hard to find. It was dark when Castiel parked his car around the corner and hurried to the house. The front door was locked but a window had been smashed in by teenagers some years prior, and so Castiel was able to easily slip inside.

His heart pounding loudly in his head, he began to search in the small amount of light coming from the street amidst what was remaining in the house. Most of it had been sold or taken to pay for the estate, since the father and Sam had been presumed dead and Dean was in prison and unable to pay for it. The weathered For Sale sign creaked weakly outside, and the only other sound was Castiel as he moved slowly through the dust-covered house.

If he were Dean, he would hide those letters somewhere where no one would think to look. That ruled out the obvious places, and Castiel only hoped that they had not been kept in one of the pieces of furniture that had already been taken.

He made his way upstairs and stopped at the top. There was a portrait there of a smiling woman, young and blonde and pretty. Her eyes were a calm blue, her smile welcoming and warm. Dean's mother, Castiel would guess. She died when Sam was young. Mary Winchester.

He raised his hand and touched the glass very lightly, his fingers moving through dust. "I hope he's with you," Castiel murmured, compassion and hope for Dean rising up in him as he stared into the kind, smiling face of the mother Sam and Dean had never been able to know. How might they have turned out, had she not died?

The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sometimes Castiel found that saying to be all too true.

He sighed, and the picture tilted just a little as he removed his hand. He paused, frowning when he heard a scraping sound as it moved. He touched it again, before curling his fingers around the frame and lifting it completely off the wall.

There, in a small fault in the plaster, where folded pieces of paper. They were slightly sticking out, which must have caused the scraping sound. Castiel's breath caught as he reached forward and pulled them out. They were numerous, written in several sets of handwriting. One of them was fluid and italic, and addressed to John specifically – Mary's letters, perhaps when her husband was off at war. Then, John's more upright, stilted writing answering back.

But there was a third set. This writing moved, sometimes easy and slick and sometimes written so hard that there were holes in the paper. Castiel set Mary's and John's letters aside and opened the last set, his breathing and hands unsteady as he read;

_Dean,_

_He's following me. He's going to hurt me. I don't know what to do.-_

_Thank you. Oh my God, thank you. I love you.-_

_I can't come back. He knows – they all know. She's going to kill me, Dean. I can't let her get to me._

_If you don't do it, I will._

Thirteen of them. Just as Dean had said.

"Father in Heaven," Castiel breathed, his eyes wide. Mysterious ways, indeed.

"You shouldn't have come here, Father."

Castiel closed his eyes, turning around slowly, before he opened them again to see Sam standing at the foot of the stairs, shrouded in shadow like some demon ready to claw at his heels and drag his soul to the depths. His fingers tightened around the letters in his hands.

" _'Dean doesn't talk much'_ , huh?" Sam said, scoffing as he began to walk slowly up the stairs, prowling forward like a tiger nearing a gazelle. Castiel stood his ground, refusing to back down as Sam advanced on him. "Lyin's a sin, Castiel."

"Your brother bade me find these if you ever needed help," Castiel murmured. "You need help, Sam."

"What I _need_ ," Sam growled, "is to be allowed to live my life without constantly havin' to look over my shoulder, and seeing _police_ and _journalists_ and _priests_ there all the fucking time!" By then he was at the top of the stairs, looming over Castiel with his impressive height and stature. Still, Castiel stood his ground, and refused to allow Sam to see his fear.

"You killed your father," Castiel said, watching as black anger took over Sam's face. "I can understand why. He was a horrible man; he beat you and Dean mercilessly. I understand why you had to kill him."

At that, Sam's face changed abruptly – he blinked, looking almost surprised, and leaned back. His hand caught the bannister as though he was going to fall, his knuckles going white.

"He…Dean would'a let it keep happening," Sam said. "He wouldn't do anything about it – just took whatever Dad threw at him."

"You were protecting him," Castiel said. "And then he protected you. I _understand_ , Sam. Please." He held out his hand imploringly and Sam's eyes dropped to it as though he was holding out a snake. "Please, let me help you. We can make it so that you're safe. That's…that's all Dean ever wanted. He loved you and he wanted you to be safe. He told me that much and I believe him."

"I believed him, too." Sam's hand was so tight on the bannister that the old and neglected wood gave a groan of protest as he gripped it tighter. "Then he went and spilled his soul to a priest. So now I have to get rid of you, too."

He stepped forward, close enough to Castiel that he could reach out and snap the man's neck if he so chose. "I'm never gonna be safe," he said, and whereas Dean had looked so young and lost, Sam had the look of a man who had been wandering down his path for a while now, until the days and turned into years and all he knew was the rhythm of his feet upon the ground. "Not as long as people _know_. I won't."

"Sam, please." But Castiel could see he would not convince Sam. He shoved Sam away as the man reached for him, turning and running down the hall but Sam grabbed him by the ankle, growling when Castiel fell, the letters scattering from his hand. He turned around as Sam clambered to his full height and fell on top of him, his hands around Castiel's throat.

Castiel punched him as hard as he could, throwing Sam off and shoving himself to his feet again. Sam caught him at the top of the stairs, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and they both tripped over the top step and went rolling down the stairs.

Down, down, down.

Cracking bones, thudding muscle.

A sickening crunch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor."

"How do you find?"

"In the first count, for the crime of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant guilty."

"And on the second count?"

"For the second crime – attempted murder and gross physical bodily harm – we find the defendant guilty."

"The jury has decided. Sam Winchester, you have been found guilty on both counts. I sentence you to death by lethal injection. The court will decide on your execution date, and in the interim you will serve your sentence at Meadow Penitentiary."

The gavel was met with silence. No one was surprised. After the letters had been found it had been an open and shut case. Sam, like his brother, had pleaded neither guilty nor innocent.

Castiel hadn't expected anything else.

Sam turned to look at him, his face half-hidden by bandages, and his teeth still slightly red when he bared them in a smile. Castiel nodded at him and stretched his leg, wincing when it ached sharply in protest. He watched Sam be led away and couldn't help but feel very empty. Like nothing had been solved. Another man was going to die now and Castiel himself was awaiting trial next week.

He had no idea what his fate would be. Technically he was protected by the laws of confession, but who knew with the court nowadays. He had no fear, though – God would decide for him. That much he had always believed.

"One hell of a ride."

Castiel looked to his side, nodding to the man who had taken a seat next to him. He was unassuming in all the best ways, the kind of man who worked in a cubicle job and didn't make much trouble for himself or any of those around him. Castiel's jaw had been wired shut and so he couldn't speak, but he was sure his 'who are you?' was fairly deducible.

The man smiled at him, and Castiel was forced to reassess his earlier assumption. This man was not unassuming – he was better than that. He was slick, and quiet, and melted between conversations and groups like air. He was unnoticeable because he chose to be.

"Name's Luci," he said, holding out a hand which Castiel shook. His eyes shone bright and blue as stained glass in the harsh fluorescent light, and his hair was slicked back and almost golden in color. "I'm the new corrections officer at Meadow. Figured I should get to know you since you'll be our Death Row Angel."

He chuckled and Castiel nodded.

"Anywho, I bet this was a real interesting month for ya, Father," Luci said, tossing his head and pulling a leg up to cross over his other knee, hands loosely clasped in a mockery of prayer and resting on his shin. "Ol' Sammy's gonna be treated well there. Bet _his_ last confession is gonna be a thrill."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, but he could not reply. So he shrugged instead.

Luci smiled at him, too-wide and relaxed. "Have a good recovery, Father," he said with a friendly pat on Castiel's shoulder, before he stood up. "It's gonna be a wild year!"

As he left, Castiel was left alone in the courtroom. The jury had filed out and the judge had left with them. The crowd for this trial had been larger – Sam was famous now, as the missing brother who had turned out to be the mastermind behind Dean's downfall. Castiel was sure the tabloids would be well-fed with news and gossip for weeks to come, and even more when he was finally able to speak again, he was sure they'd descend upon him like chittering demons as well.

He sighed and put his head in his hands. A wild year, indeed. He couldn't help but think of Mary again, of her smiling down at him and her son as they had laid broken and bleeding at the bottom of the stairs, half-conscious. The sirens had come moments after, a neighbor alerted by the noise calling the police and the ambulances running along right after.

Then, the letters.

Castiel tugged at his collar, finding it constricting and not for the first time. His faith had been tested before but never for something this large – what was the whole point? Really, what possible plan could this have been for? _Why_?

He wanted to scream it, but he was mute.

Dean's bitterness suddenly made a whole lot of sense, in that moment. Castiel breathed out heavily and forced himself to stand, grabbing his crutches and grunting with every step as his damaged ankle did its best to hold his weight.

Luci was still outside, smiling and waving at paparazzi, and he turned and winked at Castiel as the priest hobbled out of the courtroom. Castiel felt an involuntary shiver running down his spine and, for a moment, he felt genuine fear for Sam Winchester, at what would lie ahead of him under that man's rule.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Castiel supposed he would just have to stick around and figure out what exactly that meant.


End file.
